Saturday 25th September 1.30pm

Saturday 25th September 1.30pm

Having just returned from an amazing week of swimming three times a day in the Lake District (thanks especially to Daniel Start for some fantastic suggestions) I'm keen to get back into the sea. It's a perfect day, and after a few missed calls and texts between me and SW (lack of signal from his sheltered valley to my hill topped pocket is our greatest problem… I don't like to bring it up AGAIN, but there was an occasion in August when SW failed to show up at all and I and the mascot had to swim sadly alone in the almost PITCH DARK) we set a time. I jump in the car which still smells of wet tent and Kendal mint cake, and burn down to Burton Bradstock, which SW has chosen as West Bay can sometimes get a bit murky after heavy rain (don't ask). SW is already there and we're catch-up gossiping as we pick a spot, change, walk down to the sea and I'm up to my knees before we realise that it's an incredibly low tide. To the west, rocks are showing on the tide line that I have never seen before, and below our feet is a steep step onto a weedy, rocky shelf. Rather alarming, especially when I dive in and my hands get tangled up in octopussy weed. Yuk! But SW is much braver, concealing a not very graceful slip and plunge in with a dive, then ploughing ahead to where it's much clearer and more our usual standard. And so warm! Too warm, I shout as I join him and SW agrees – someone needs to turn on the cold tap. I launch into a long boring story about one of my lake district swims and when I finally draw it to a close ("and then we just jumped in!") we realise we are miles out. At West Bay, we use the end of the pier as our marker – without the pier at the Hive, we can confidently say we are simply MILES out. The few people on the beach are ants, and the cliff is a solid, straight wall. The water feels lovely, warm, soft and fairly clear. I can see my blue toes at least. We paddle about and then SW shows off his beautiful butterfly. He can only do it for about four seconds, but they are four glorious seconds. My attempt results in SW inhaling a mouthful of water in his hysterics and almost drowning. I'll have to practise alone.

The shore looks some way off, so we swim in – SW front crawl, MG backstroke. We plot our course before hand - I always think we are going to crash into each other, despite having the entire sea at our disposal! The weedy shelf is even more unattractive on close acquaintance and underwater it is murky and dark. SW gets out and then dives back in – the wind feels freezing, the water balmy. But it's time to get out. On the shore we compare colours – MG - purple knees, SW – white fingertips. Not bad. Later in the year, we have a bar on the beach – SW is in charge, though I must say the reliability is fairly indeterminate. It's opening hours are confusing. But the standard is always reliable – hot chocolate, delicious olive oil biscuits, parkin for the mascot, and I'm hoping (hinting) Battenberg cake (I realise afterwards that this is how Roger Deakin describes the cliffs at Burton "…all yellow and blue like the classic seaside posters on post-war railway platforms… the bright orange cliffs are layered like Battenberg cake" so it would be an appropriate snack). We change feeling comfortably chilled and stagger, no, SWAGGER, back down the beach, past Billy Bragg's house, where rock music is pulsing over the gentle beach. We part at the cars with promises to meet tomorrow.